


Before Midnight (Save the Last Dance)

by AsheRhyder



Series: Fairy Tale Age [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:20:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsheRhyder/pseuds/AsheRhyder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Leliana gets word from an old friend about a threat to the Inquisitor’s life, a trap is set in the likeness of an Orlesian Ball. But when the masks are donned and the dancing begins, more secrets come to light than hidden knives. </p>
<p>The Iron Bull wasn’t expecting anyone to ask him to dance…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before Midnight (Save the Last Dance)

**Author's Note:**

> While not a true sequel to "A Bed of Roses", you can consider the many of the events in the previous story to remain 'true' for this one, much in the same way that a new playthrough of the game can open up new story options...

      
    “I hate this plan,” Inquisitor Trevelyan said with the dry, even tone of someone whose utter detestation of the situation had drained their soul of every virtue except forbearance.   
  
    “It’s a good plan.” Leliana insisted and prodded Evelyn in the spine to make her stand up straighter.   
  
    “Your plans always involve killing people.” Trevelyan pointed out.   
  
    “You’ve never complained about that before.”   
  
    “I used to be the one doing the killing. That made up for it.”   
  
    “You are a strange woman, Inquisitor.”   
  
    “Strange enough to get out of this death trap you call a dress?”   
  
    “The trap is not for you. The assassin—”   
  
    “Is going to notice that I’m damn uncomfortable in this and stab me while I’m trying not to break my neck in these ridiculous shoes. Or, you know, take one look at my face and see the tattoos I got when I was young and stupid.”   
  
    “My dear Inquisitor,” said Dorian as he sauntered up and propped himself against the doorframe, “the past tense implies that neither of those are true facts _now_ , and we all know that you’re far from anything anyone would call ‘old’.”   
  
    “Oh yeah? What about the other one?” Evelyn gave him a challenging grin, half-feral and ready to duel wits.  
  
    “Well, between the two of us, I’m not the one who’s been conned into wearing four-inch heels.” Dorian retorted.   
  
    “You’re too tall for four-inch heels,” Leliana said, fixing the lacings again, “and the tattoos are why we are doing this in the Orlesian style. A full face mask will cover them nicely. I told you this earlier. I knew you weren’t paying attention at the war table.”   
  
    She pulled sharply on the stays, and Evelyn gasped out a creative curse involving a goat, a basket, and the Skyhold bridge that had Dorian’s mouth curling into a smile under his mustache.   
  
    “Such language from our noble and most holy Herald of Andraste,” he chided.   
  
    “Maker’s balls,” she groaned. “Why are we doing this again?”   
  
    “If you weren’t so busy making eyes at the Commander, you might not need it repeated,” Leliana teased. “One of my old friends found out about a contract on your life. We are both looking into catching the assassin and sending a very clear message back to their employer, but in the meantime we want to keep them from simply shooting you the next time you leave the hold. This is a lure, and you are the irresistible bait.”  
  
    “I hate this plan. It’s a terrible plan. Did I agree to this plan?” Evelyn looked over to Dorian, who chuckled.   
  
    “I’m afraid that’s between you and your advisors,” he said. “I merely follow your lead.”  
  
    “Lies,” she sighed. “You never ‘merely’ anything.”   
  
    “You have me there.” His gaze slid over to Leliana, who artfully moved some draping silk with all the innocence of a set trap. “If you have a moment, I have something to discuss with you.”   
  
    “Privately?” Evelyn raised an eyebrow.  
  
    “Preferably,” he shrugged, “at least initially. You can do with the information what you like once you’ve heard it, but I thought you might like time to get used to it first.”   
  
    The Inquisitor nodded and glanced down to Leliana. The spymaster straightened up and smoothed out her cloak.   
  
    “I will get the make-up from Josie, so we can try a few things.” She said in a pleasant tone that fooled no one who worked with her for more than a week. “Dorian, please don’t let her muss the dress.” ‘Or escape’ was hidden in the silence after like the subtle taste of almonds in an Orlesian pastry: it could be harmless as marzipan, or it could be deadly as cyanide, and you were probably doomed either way.   
  
    Dorian bowed only half-jestingly and waited for the door to close all the way before returning his full attention to Evelyn.   
  
    “What’s the damage?” She asked, shuffling uncomfortably as she tried to shift into her ‘I’m the Inquisitor, I do Important Things’ posture. She failed. The shoes unbalanced her.   
  
    “Minimal so far, and I keep hoping for none, but fortune hasn’t been on our side lately.” He sighed. “Do you remember the book you acquired for me to help find Corypheus’ real name?”   
  
    “Of course. You were positively giddy when the shipment from Tevinter came in. Have you had any luck?”   
  
    “Not as such…” he trailed off. “Well, I did find _something._ ”   
  
    “Don’t keep me in suspense, you horrible man.”   
  
    “Now, now, is that any way to speak to your kin?”   
  
    “I can speak any way I— what?”   
  
    “As it turns out, the Trevelyan line and the Pavus family are — albeit distantly — related. It’s a bit of a ways back, something of a six-hundred year gap, so I shouldn’t worry overmuch if I were you. No one’s going to start calling you a magister any time soon.” He cracked a wry grin.   
  
    “Are you kidding me?”   
  
    “I can show you the register if you like, but it’s quite dull, even to someone of my genius. But there you have it.” He sobered quickly. “I doubt it will come to light if you don’t want it to; though genealogy is public record in Tevinter, they’d have to dig through six Ages worth of my ancestors and work their way back up to you. Not many people have the fortitude for such efforts.”   
  
    “You did,” Evelyn pointed out, and he preened momentarily.   
  
    “Yes, well, I am a bastion of excellence.” He buffed his nails against his chest. She laughed as much as the dress would allow.   
  
    “So that’s it then? Dorian, I don’t care who knows. I mean, Maker, half the noble families in Thedas are already related.”   
  
    “Which brings me to my second point - there is a chance, a slim one, mind you, that this ties us to Corypheus as well. I’m still researching; I’m hoping he’s actually some Laetan ex-boot-maker from the edge of the Silent Plains, but I don’t think we’ll be that lucky. I’ll find his family name, I promise you.”   
  
    “I trust you,” she said, and then shuddered. “Ugh. Can you imagine being related to him? Just. Damn.”   
  
    “I know.” Dorian pulled a face. “Rather ruins the appetite, doesn’t it?”   
  
    “Maybe that will help me fit into this Maker-forsaken gown.” Evelyn spat out the last word with venom usually reserved for the most vile of curses. “Andraste’s flaming knickers, at this rate, I’d _let_ an assassin kill me if it got me out of this wreck.”   
  
    “Don’t you dare,” Dorian replied, smiling despite the sharpness of his tone. “I have too few decent relations, and I refuse to let one of the best of them die in so common a manner.”   
  
    “Elitist.” She stuck her tongue out at him.   
  
    “Plus, if you die? I’ll make sure they bury you in a dress ten times worse.”   
  
    “Dorian!”  

 

* * *

  
  
    True to his word, Dorian threw himself back into his research with a fervor that frightened even the other residents of the library. Days disappeared unheeded. He drafted charts cross-referencing massive genealogies with affiliations to the ancient temples, drew connections between priests and long-dead cadet branches of half-forgotten family trees, and dug to the very deepest secrets hidden in what was once, ostensibly, a holy book. His papers overflowed the table he claimed for his workspace; he hung them from the bookshelves and on the walls until that, too was inconvenient. The bookkeeper nearly ran to the Inquisitor in tears after Dorian snapped at him for moving an elaborate map of family migrations across the Imperium to shelve some books. Even Helisma gave the encroaching research a long, considering look.   
  
    So Dorian dragged his work - charts, charters, maps, scraps and all - down to the abandoned study in the basement. There, at least, no one would interrupt him with trite copies of irrelevant history.   
  
    He was close, he knew it, and to his immeasurable dismay, his family was still among the possibilities by dubious virtue of a terrifyingly prolific ancestor who remarried five times and managed to connect the eleven accumulated children into prolific but wildly spread out Houses across the whole damn Imperium. Tracing the connections back through all of those Houses was nearly as big of a pain as trying to solve those accursed torch-lighting puzzles that kept popping up in every other ruin across Thedas.   
  
  
    The day of Evelyn’s party-trap came quickly and found Dorian passed out on top of a chart of his and Evelyn’s most distant mutual ancestors, the branching of bloodlines lying somewhere between the ribs of his left side. It was only a few hours’ rest, nothing compared to the number he’d skipped and caffeinated his way through in order to keep working, and it came to an end as the echoes of the fort’s preparations reverberated down the hallways. The sounds of people hard at work for the Inquisitor somehow managed to filter through his bone-deep exhaustion and shoot a jolt of unappreciated adrenaline straight into the part of him determined not to let Evelyn down.   
  
    He bolted upright. His brain produced a single train of thought that was perfectly refined by sheer repetition: He would not let a blighted legacy taint her. He would make sure no one diminished her opposition to Corypheus to something so simple as cleaning up an ancestor’s mess. He would— he would, he would, would…    
  
    His eyes crossed, vision blurred beyond the ability to decipher his own handwriting, and he stared blankly at the books in front of him while he waited for his brain to either catch up or give up and leak out of his ears.   
  
    That was how the Iron Bull found him, some indeterminate time later.   
  
    “Okay, yeah, how about ‘no’.” The Bull sighed and shook his head, a dangerous decision that nearly knocked a row of books off the shelf beside him.   
  
    “Hmm?” Dorian glanced up at the grey and black blur in front of him.   
  
    “I was going to see if you were ready for the party, but you’re not in any condition to go anywhere except bed.”   
      
    “It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?” He blinked. “Party? Party! Right, I’ll—” He got to his feet, or tried to, anyway, only to sway precariously and fall back into the chair.   
      
    “You’ll put your feet up and your head down and try and get some shut eye.” Bull crossed his arms.   
  
    “Going along with your bedroom proclivities doesn’t mean you can boss me around elsewhere.” Dorian attempted to rally, but one of his knees turned out to be treacherously on the Bull’s side and gave out on him. He managed to swing his failing balance so that he collapsed, once more, into the chair. “Besides, Evelyn needs—”   
  
    “This has nothing to do with that. Boss has Vivienne, Cassandra, and Varric on point for her tonight, and the rest of us on perimeter,” said the Bull. “What she needs is for you to get some rest and not light anyone on fire ‘cause you can’t see straight.”   
      
    “I have never been so tired as to set someone on _fire_.” Dorian growled, and Bull said nothing for long enough that the silence turned into a challenge of its own. “…twice. I’ve never done it twice. At least not to the same person.”   
  
    “Yeah, that? Not exactly a ringing endorsement.” The Iron Bull shook his head. “Seriously, get some sleep. You want a hand getting back to your room?”   
  
    Dorian bristled.   
  
    “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself!”   
  
    “It’s a lot more convincing when you’re not slumped over the desk.”   
      
    “I’m not—” Dorian took note of his posture, straightened up, and then let himself sigh in exasperation. “It’s important work.”   
  
    “Didn’t say I thought otherwise,” answered the Bull in a suspiciously non-committal tone of voice. “Get some rest. There’s always the next party.”   
  
    “But—” Dorian tried one last time to get out of his chair, but the Iron Bull’s hand on his shoulder was heavy and warm, and he had no recollection of the moment it got there.   
  
    “Next time,” said the Bull, “and I promise you a dance that’ll make your head spin.” His smile was patient and amiable, slipping across Dorian’s frayed and fractured temper like silk rope.   
  
    “You’d need a much bigger scarf,” Dorian muttered, half to himself. Bull made a curious noise, but the mage finally recovered and waved him off, brushing the Bull’s arm aside in the process. “All right, all right. Just let me leave this in some semblance of order so I can come back to it later.”   
  
    “Good.” Bull nodded, backing out of the little study. “I’m going to get into that rigamarole they call a uniform before Ma’am takes my head off. Are you sure you’re okay to get back to your room?”   
  
    “Fine, fine.” Dorian replied. “Go on. Mustn’t have Madame de Fer cross with you.” 

 

* * *

 

  
    It wasn’t so much as a second wind that Dorian got while he straightened his workstation as it was an epiphany. His eyes fell on a cluster of words in the Liberalum, just a little side note in the margin left by an irritated illuminator, and suddenly the pieces fell into place.   
  
    Sethius of House Amladaris. Magister. Dreamer. High level priest serving Dumat. Right time frame. Right region.   
  
    Not, unfortunately, a legacy that would cause potential Venatori to turn away in classist arrogance, but Amladaris still held some sway, and the information could be useful in whichever hands Evelyn dropped it.   
      
    More importantly, not House Pavus. Somehow it was one of the few Houses in the Imperium that had no connection to them — and no connection to the Trevelyans.   
  
    Dorian laughed, half-delirious with relief. If he teared up, he told himself that it was just the strain of so much reading — then he reminded himself that there was no one down there to see him, and he let himself have a few tears.   
  
    He staggered through the lower levels of the fort, barely paying attention to where he was going through the solace and the exhaustion. That proved to be a mistake, because it meant he walked straight into Dagna. The dwarven arcanist’s attention was likewise diverted; in her case, it was focused on the large flask of faintly glowing orange liquid that took up both her hands and was filled nearly to the brim.  
  
    The resulting collision was a thing of pure comedy, a masterpiece of slapstick that no clown could have ever choreographed. Dagna went down and immediately rolled to the side, reflexes kicking in even before rational thought registered the action. It was a time-honored skill, well honed by any arcanist who survived apprenticeship. The contents of the beaker splashed up, catching Dorian across the face and torso. The mage in question, his balance completely thrown by Dagna hitting his leg in the exact instance when his weight was shifting sides mid-stride, achieved a very nice spin and caught a 450° rotation, landing on his backside.   
  
    There was a brief, tense silence that followed, broken only by one comment that seemed more like an afterthought than a statement.  
  
    “Ow,” said Dorian. Orange liquid dripped off the ends of his mustache and evaporated, leaving a gleaming, almost golden residue on his skin.   
  
    “Are you okay?” Dagna gasped. She did not, he noticed, come any closer.   
      
    Dorian took a minute to consider. He felt… fine. Better than fine, actually. Despite all his hard work, missed sleep, and foregone meals, he felt… _fantastic_. The stiffness in his neck eased to nothing. His eyes focused easily and without any dizziness. The dull ache that once occupied his back had been banished to the realm of memory. He felt energized and alert, like he could take on a hike across the entire Hinterlands without stopping for any longer than it took to fry an inconvenient bear.   
  
    “Yes?” He said curiously. “Actually, I’m rather confused by that.”   
  
    “Oh?” Her own inquisitiveness piqued, Dagna took a few steps closer and bounced on her toes.   
  
    “Mere moments ago there were corpses in the Fallow Mire who felt more lively than I did. Now, I feel up to anything, including accompanying Evelyn and Bull on one of their ridiculously ill-advised dragon hunts. Dare I ask what was in the beaker?”   
  
    She smiled, an eager but flighty smile that Dorian recognized as the kind of thing that always preceded a half-truth.   
  
    “It was regeneration potion.”   
  
    He gave her a skeptical stare. For one thing, the damn potions were not effective topically, and for another, the amount in the flask would have caused severe indigestion if not outright vomiting.   
  
    “Regeneration potion. Come now, perhaps the blacksmith might buy that, but certainly not a person with actual field experience.”   
  
    “It really is, it’s just… modified a little bit.” Dagna fidgeted. “You probably should’t let it stay on you like that. It was meant to augment armor.”   
  
    He froze, one hand pulling at the ruined leather of his top, and the other trying to keep his dampened collar off his throat.   
  
    “It was meant to _what_?”   
  
    “We’re trying to find a way to augment armor without the use of Fade-touched and Masterwork materials, artificially enhancing cheaper materials to see if we an get the same effects— oh, here, it’ll probably be better to just show you, and we can get you something else to wear.” She gestured for him to follow her back to the undercroft. “Just… let me know if it starts having an unusual side effects, okay?”   
  


  
    The undercroft was, thankfully, empty, the blacksmith having wandered off to Maker-knows-where for the evening. Perhaps he’d even gone up to the party.   
  
    Dorian thought longingly of the intrigue, the food and drink, and the dancing going on above their heads. He finally had the energy and time to indulge, and now he had nothing to wear but the extra banners Dagna found in a box. Half the factions of Thedas offered the Inquisition copies of their standards in hopes of allegiance, or at least amnesty. Dorian found some amusement in turning the overly-embroidered Orlesian banner into a half-decent tunic while Dagna studied his stained under armor for any sign of enhancement.   
      
    His gaze drifted around the chamber, skimming over equipment with the intense, dissecting stare of the terminally curious, and finally he caught sight of a stand on the side. It propped up a set of medium armor, leather and metal woven together to make something that looked more suited to a rogue’s body than the mage’s hood currently attached. The leather was the soft blue-grey of snoufleur skin, the metal looked like polished silverite, and the cloth was a brilliantly white silk.   
  
    It was the supplemental armor that looked more experimental: whatever mineral made up the plates in the arms and legs looked more like glass than metal, glossy and smooth as unfrosted ice. And the hood — it seemed deeper than it ought to, darker than even the creepy Venatori cowls that corrupted Dorian’s beloved Tevinter style.   
  
    “Why in the world would you pair a mage hood with rogue armor?” he asked, closing in for a more thorough examination. Enchantment was by no means his strongest field, but he spent enough time with imbued items in his school days for such unusual items as Dagna’s work to catch his eye. “Is this a frost resistance enchantment on the boots? Oh, very nice, very subtle, too.”   
      
    “There’s a trick where, with the right materials, you can make armor that ignores class restrictions.” Dagna grinned. “Better protection for the Inquisition’s mages, if they can wear something a little sturdier.”   
  
    Dorian raised an eyebrow.   
  
    “Not planning on testing it out on us, are you? Because you must realize that this would never fit Solas or Vivienne, even if it is in her favorite colors.” He shook his head. “They’re far too narrow in the shoulders to fit it. Actually, even if you put it on a rogue, Cole is probably too narrow—”   
  
    He paused and looked down into Dagna’s hopeful, upturned face. A feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach, the result of being too clever to feasibly pull off ignorance of her expectation. “Was this your plan from the start?”   
      
    “Happy coincidence,” Dagna beamed. “The Inquisitor’s had us working on it in preparation for the next outing to Emprise du Lion.”   
  
    “Of course,” he sighed. “Cold resistance. _Of course_.”   
  
    “Think of it as a nice, easy trial?” She suggested. “You can make sure it’s a comfortable fit before you actually have to go out in the snow. Besides, it’s either this, or you have to go out there in a sheet.”   
  
    He raised an imperious eyebrow and adjusted the drape of the fabric.   
  
    “Please,” he scoffed. “I make this look fantastic.” She giggled.   
      
    “Are you really going up there, in the middle of a big Orlesian party, with the whole inner circle and maybe an assassin, wearing a _sheet_ , when you could be wearing enchanted armor?”   
  
    “I wasn’t originally planning to go up at all,” he reminded her. “Before your little slip with the regenerative enamel, I was going to go to bed.”   
  
    “And now?”   
  
    He managed to hold out for a long minute before capitulating. The thought of surprising Bull was just too appealing.   
  
    “Oh, all right.”   
  


* * *

  
  
    As far as fancy parties went, the Iron Bull had attended worse. Josie was good at throwing together a combination of good food, drinks, music, and decorations that, while not as ostentatious as the set up at Halamshiral, was still well beyond what a flush-out operation really deserved.   
  
    He wasn’t _really_ expecting the assassin to show; for one thing, the middle of a ball held in the Inquisition headquarters left shit for escape routes, and for another, anyone good enough to still make those routes viable ought to have been too good for word of the contract to get out in the first place. That left the inept, the unhinged, and the ones who wouldn’t really care about making it back out once the job was done anyway. Of the three, the first set wouldn’t make it past the front door, and the second shouldn’t make it past the inner circle. It was that last handful they’d have to watch for; someone who’d cared enough to get close enough to do the job and considered their life a worthwhile price to pay for it.   
  
    He skimmed the crowd for signs of someone moving with that specific, subtle malice that prefaced murder. He caught sight of Varric — like Bull, it was harder to disguise him, especially without the seemingly traditional dwarven beard. Once Varric was found, it was a simple task to find Evelyn nearby, laughing delightedly at some undoubtedly raucous story of his.  
  
    Cassandra was also easy enough to pick out: she moved like a soldier on duty, and no amount of Orlesian frippery could disguise it. It had taken all of Josephine and Leliana’s not inconsiderable skill to put her in a dress like the one Evelyn wore. Primarily it was supposed to make her into another decoy, but while the costumes and masks could hide the differences in the women of the Inquisition, their demeanors were much harder to conceal.   
  
    He caught sight of Vivienne, who moved between little circles of guests with the casual but practiced ease of a perfect host.   
  
    Most of the rest of the Inner Circle was scattered throughout the hall, some to better effect than others. Blackwall and Cullen stood out for sheer awkwardness, Blackwall by himself and Cullen, once again, surrounded by admirers. Josephine, like Viivenne, drifted from guest to guest. Solas watched the assembled like pieces on a chessboard, detached and considering.   
  
    Of Sera, Cole, and Leliana there was no sign, but that was to be expected. Leliana was _good_ at this, Sera was stationed in the rafters with explicit orders not to start trouble, and Cole… well, who could keep track of him?   
  
    Dorian, of course, was not there. He ignored the little pang that felt dangerously close to longing.   
  
    The Iron Bull let his attention drift over the other guests and gave himself a moment’s fancy of being Solas’ opponent at chess. As dancers whirled their way across the floor, he assigned them ranks and considered strategies to counter their moves. There wasn’t much else for a giant Qunari to do, after all. No one dared ask him to dance. There was no sign of an assassin, nothing even the least bit out of the ordinary, and he was—  
  
    Wait. There. Midway across the hall.   
  
     A figure, resplendent in white silk and black shadow, mirror-bright in the blending swirl of colors. Probably human, almost definitely male by the build. The high collar and elaborate frogging looked like an ornamental uniform at first glance, but Bull could see the materials for what they were beneath the trapping: leather and metal armor, as functional as they were beautiful.   
  
    It looked like someone came ready for a fight.   
  
    Bull kept the nascent smirk off his face. He only had one eye, but it was very keen on detail, and it picked out the tell-tale markings of enchantment hidden in the embroidery and embellishments.   
  
    The armored figure started winding his way across the room, dipping in and out of little companies without ever seeming to genuinely intrude. It took the Bull longer than he’d like to register that the newcomer was heading for _him_.   
  
    As he approached, the Bull realized that the stranger’s hood shadowed his face unnaturally well — there was no more than a suggestion of shape in the darkness, not even enough to define a cheekbone or jawline. Perfect cover for an assassin who would need to shuck a disguise in the time it took to turn a corner and walk away from the scene of their crime.   
  
    The stranger stopped closer into the boundaries of personal space than was strictly polite, and the Bull tensed.   
  
    Those few brave and eccentric souls who had decided to stand in the vicinity of the Inquisitor’s Qunari bodyguard were shocked and amazed to see the newcomer in the splendid suit extend his gloved hand in an invitation to dance. The Qunari, for his part, blinked a few times, smiled in a way that onlookers would have been pressed to call perfectly congenial, and accepted.   
  
    It said something about the nature of the Inquisition that their entrance onto the dance floor was met with little more than polite murmurs as the other dancers adjusted to allow room for the Bull’s broad shoulders. The exact nature of that something was probably not as easily put into words, and it certainly didn’t stop people from _looking_ , but the majority of those looks were intrigued rather than scandalized.   
      
    The stranger danced divinely. So, to the surprise of many, did the Iron Bull. They swept across the floor like a force of nature, magnificent to behold and impossible to impede. Four fast steps, back and forth exquisitely timed, held the same roll as the tide. A sweeping turn had the same rush as the wind before a storm. An impromptu lift and the twisting descent captured the power of an avalanche dragging the mountainside to the valley. The stranger’s feet flew, catching the light in the glass-like adornments on his boots and flashing like diamonds, but no spin dislodged his hood or stirred the shadows from his face.   
  
    The Iron Bull held up his partner with ease. His large hands  skirted over the man’s sides and shoulders in search of hidden weapons. He found none, but the stranger put one hand overtop his when his fingers lingered over the hip for a moment longer than simply dancing warranted. The brief squeeze let Bull know his partner was more than aware of just how far his hands wandered.   
  
    There was something else, too; something in the way the stranger held himself and turned his head. The Iron Bull realized that his partner was looking for something — or more likely, for some _one_ — and was using their dance to cover more ground to do it.   
  
    Annoyance flared through the Bull, and at the next pass he spun his partner a little too hard. Of course, ‘a little too hard’ from the Bull was still as forceful as an axe blow, and his partner staggered, knocking into some other dancers and bumping into another guest near the Inquisitor.   
      
    The clang of a knife falling out of the affronted guest’s sleeve was impossibly loud in the crowded hall. For one embarrassing moment, everything froze in tableau: the startled Inquisitor, her stunned would-be assassin, and the confused stranger whose apparent clumsiness interrupted them.   
  
    The assassin, a woman whose dress had distinct Antivan influences under closer scrutiny, looked up and locked eyes with the Inquisitor. Evelyn’s gaze hardened to something dark and deadly, the same grim expression that came upon her when they ran into battle.   
      
    And then everyone else started _moving_. Cassandra pushed her way in front of the Inquisitor, an indomitable wall with or without her shield. Varric rolled to the side, pulling Bianca from only Stone knew where, and he, Sera, and Leliana fired shots that drove the assassin back before she could rush forward and attempt to do the job anyway. Blackwall and the Bull charged in as the mages brought up barriers, while all three advisors attempted to steer the crowd away from the conflict.   
  
    The assassin, upon seeing her opportunity evaporate, made a break for the door.   
  
    “Don’t let her get away!” Evelyn roared, tearing her gown to make the damn thing more maneuverable and to get at the dagger she’d strapped to her thigh.   
  
    Chaos made its way through Skyhold, crashing through the door to the courtyard in a shouting, shoving mess. The assassin, narrowly in the lead, turned enough on the stairs to drop something behind her.   
  
    “Grenade!” yelled Varric, for all the good it did. Sticky black pitch splashed across the stairs, pining everyone where they stood and clogging up the bottleneck with broad shoulders because the warriors always took point.   
  
    “Move your friggin’ arse!” Sera growled, unable to see around the Bull’s bulk to aim.   
  
    “If I could, I would,” he snarled back. He hated this staircase; stairs were always a double-edged sword when it came to combat, and now they were all stuck here, at least long enough for the damn assassin to escape.   
  
    Something tried to shove his arm out of the way, thwacking Blackwall across the back in the process. He abruptly realized that his strange dance partner was crammed in there with them, nearly pinned between his back and Cassandra’s very sharp elbows.   
  
    “You have got to be kidding me,” muttered a familiar voice under the dark hood. There was a quick click like some kind of metal unbuckling, and then a deep, pervasive chill as the stranger blurred and stepped _through_ the space between them and the assassin.   
  
    The stranger reappeared halfway into the courtyard. He was barefoot, and Bull’s quick glance back and down revealed that he’d simply unbuckled his boots and Fade-Stepped out of the tar.   
  
    The assassin, suddenly confronted with an obstacle of the magical sort, had just enough time to reach for another grenade when a tremendous bolt of lightning hit her like the Maker’s judgement. In between the spots that danced in the Inquisition’s vision, Cole appeared and brought his knives down with deadly efficiency.   
  
    “Good lad,” said the hooded man as the body crumpled between them. He patted Cole on the shoulder as the boy beamed. Then he looked down at his bare feet and sighed. “I’m going to do what I should have done in the first place and go to bed.”   
  
    And without giving the rest of the Inquisition a chance to say or do anything, he stomped off through the muddy courtyard to do just that.   
  


* * *

  
  
    It took an annoyingly long time to clean up the remains of the ball. Those who had any skill with oratory were drafted to help soothe things over with the confused and rightfully concerned guests. Those who did not were drafted for manual labor; it was, Evelyn noted, patently unfair to pass all the hard work on to the less combat-ready people of Skyhold.   
  
    Bull couldn’t complain too much, since the last he saw Evelyn herself was hauling chairs back into the main hall. He did, however, get the short straw and had to try and clear the pitch off the damn stairs. After a few hours of scraping and scrubbing, what he got for his effort was a stiff knee and a pair of boots with still-sticky soles.   
  
    He stared at the glass-like enchantments on the leather for longer than they probably deserved, pretty or no. Then, being a sensible person, he went to bed.   
  
    With as long as he was probably up, Dorian wouldn’t be awake until nearly midday, anyway. 

 

* * *

  
  
    Dorian’s morning routine was complex, but so well practiced that he could practically do it in his sleep. There were a few choice occasions where he probably had done it like that. Regardless, whenever he roused himself from bed, he went through the rituals of ablution and composure that prepared him to face the day. Even if that day was nearly half over already.   
  
    The previous evening’s events were like a strange dream, hazed by the weariness that crept back in after the adrenaline wore off and his body decided that, potion or no, thirty-odd hours of consciousness and strenuous activity was too much. He was ready to write it off as such, at least until he saw Dagna’s experimental armor sitting on the chair where he’d left it the night before. The silk and silverite combination sagged over the back and seat, dejected as a forgotten dance partner.   
  
    And speaking of dance partners…   
  
    There was a light rapping at his door, and Dorian answered it to see the Iron Bull on the other side, rather sheepishly holding the missing boots.   
  
    “Didn’t want your footsies to get cold,” said the Bull.   
  
    “Ah, yes, thank you.” Dorian accepted the boots and tossed them in the direction of the rest of the set without looking. “I’ll have to get that back to Dagna sometime soon.”   
  
    “So what happened to ‘just let me leave this in some semblance of order’ and going to bed?” The Bull asked, propping himself up against the doorframe as Dorian sat down in front of his mirror to finish his routine.   
  
    “Genius happened,” Dorian replied. “Both mine and other people’s.”   
      
    “It’s not every day you go singing someone else’s praises,” the Bull noted mildly.   
  
    “I give credit where it’s due. Dagna made splendid armor. Rogues may be more bendy overall, but it’s still a sign of exquisite work to be wearing proper armor and still manage all the steps of a Nevarran Waltz. Speaking of which, I didn’t know you could waltz.”   
  
    In the mirror, Dorian’s eyes flickered upwards to watch the Bull’s response. He saw an easy shrug, and so he dropped his gaze back down to the kohl stick in his hand.   
  
    “I’m just full of surprises,” the Bull said. “So are you.”   
  
    “Any well-educated young nobleman should be able to waltz.” Dorian snorted and finished lining his lids.  
  
    “Not that. I wasn’t expecting you last night.”   
  
    “Ah.” Dorian’s fingers trembled slightly, and he put down the kohl. “So you didn’t recognize me by the fantastically dashing figure I cut.”   
  
    “Last I saw you, you could barely stand up, let alone dash. You sure as hell weren’t going to dance.”   
      
    “Yes, well, thanks to Dagna and some experimental regenerative coating, you could say I got a second wind.” He swallowed the lump in his throat that felt an awful lot like despondency. The Iron Bull hadn’t recognized him, hadn’t accepted the dance just _because_ it was him, hadn’t had his hands on him because he wanted to manhandle Dorian in front of all and sundry. Not that Dorian liked being groped in public, but there had been something thrilling about having his partner that close and simply not _caring_ who saw. It was surprisingly disappointing that he’d misread the whole thing. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really ought to go tell Evelyn the good news I discovered—”   
  
    He moved to leave, but the Bull held up his hand. There was enough room for Dorian to walk by if he really wanted to; the gesture was just to catch his attention, not impede him.   
  
    “I thought it was the assassin,” said the Bull, and Dorian halted at that.   
  
    “I beg your pardon?” His tone edged past confusion and straight into disbelief, edging on hysteria. “You thought I was _what_?!”   
      
    “Not you. The guy you seemed to be. Shows up at a fancy party in armor, can’t see his face, dances with the muscle to do a sweep of the room, and let me tell you, lots of folk who try that also intend to stab the heavy hitter on their way to their real target. Helps them get that out of the way for later.” The Bull shrugged again, this time looking the slightest bit uncomfortable. “Even if you weren’t supposed to be asleep, you get all flustered whenever I bring us up. So when some hotshot comes in and asks me to dance? You can see why I put things together and got the answer I did, right?”   
  
    Dorian stared up at the Iron Bull, his grey eyes trying to read the Qunari like a grimoire in a language he barely knew.   
  
    “Well,” he sighed at last, and some of the tension bled out of his shoulders. “We can’t all be geniuses like Dagna and I.” He gave Bull a smile. It was a little more fragile than the Bull liked, and this time he put his hand on Dorian’s shoulder when the man moved to leave again.   
  
    “Hey,” he said, more gently than Dorian thought anybody his size had a right to sound. “I’m glad it _was_ you.”  
  
    Dorian felt heat bloom behind his collar and turned his head away before it could reach his face.   
  
    “My timing was impeccable,” he said with lofty ease he didn’t quite feel. “Especially since you managed to block all of your ranged fighters’ lines of sight with your shoulders. We seriously must have someone do something about those stairs. They’re quite the hazard—”   
  
    “I’m glad it was _you_ who wanted to dance,” said the Iron Bull. “Maybe next time we can do it again without the hood obscuring your pretty face?”   
      
    Dorian turned sharply, breath caught in his throat.   
  
    The thing about the Iron Bull that fascinated him — all right, one of the many things that fascinated him — was how the man always managed to make such a clear differentiation between an offer and a suggestion. Dorian spent his entire life among people who cunningly disguised one as the other, couldn’t tell the difference between them, or used them interchangeably because they purposely erased the difference, but Bull…   
  
    The novelty of it alone made something flutter under Dorian’s ribs, and he rolled the consideration of the Bull around in his mind the way an oenophile would savor a particularly rare vintage.   
  
    “Perhaps,” said Dorian, clearing his throat and smiling. “But next time, you have to remember that you’re saving a dance for me.”   
  
  
End

 

* * *

  
  
Epilogue:   
  
    It turned out that, though the Iron Bull was a superb waltzer, he was far less graceful with the Antivan Tango.   
  
    Incidentally, Dagna’s frost-resistant enchantment was a wild success, so though Dorian’s feet were bruised, they weren’t at all cold.   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Inspired, loosely, by "Cinderella".


End file.
